


Dear John

by Arkee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Before the Adventure of the Empty House, M/M, The amount of fluffy, is high, lets not read too much, this is a silly fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkee/pseuds/Arkee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, John starts receiving letters from a mysterious sender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear John

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse me for any grammar errors and poorly brit-picking.  
> I was writing this for a while and just wanted to post it already.

Two months had passed since the day when Sherlock jumped from the St Bartholomew’s rooftop, telling John previously that he was a fake, that he had laid during all those years of their friendship.

Initially, John went to stay with his sister. He’d not do so in normal circumstances, but this one wasn’t indeed a normal one, and he couldn’t go back to the flat on Baker Street. It hold so many memories, too many for him to deal with. The Cluedo board aggressively stuck on the wall with a knife, the skull, the other armchair (now empty) and the violin abandoned on its case on a corner.

The remains of Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, echoing painfully through him, by the sight of this or that thing. The memories that everything seemed to trigger.

It was too much.

He wouldn’t come back.

Mycroft engaged himself in keep paying Sherlock’s half of the flat’s rent. He said that he was sure that John would like to come back to it someday and that it would be unfair to give up on such a nice place just because of his brother’s stupid actions. John actually laughed a broken laugh at the thought of even going back to 221B.

But then, two months later, he was moving back, after having a fight with Harry due her drinking habits. He hated how the Holmes brothers were always right about everything. It was almost like if they knew him better than himself. The thought always bothered him.

As he entered, Mrs Hudson looked a bit concerned.

“Hi, Mrs H”

They exchanged a hug. Through the time he passed on the flat, he grew somehow attached of this sweet old lady. He never knew how she could deal with Sherlock messing up the place with his crazy experiments without bursting out or initiating a discussion or even expulsing the man.

“Someone left a lot of letters for you while you were gone, dear. I didn’t know what to do with them, so I just left them all on the kitchen’s table. How are you… you know… going through it?”

“A bit not good.” He said, hesitantly “I’m not even angry with him anymore… I just miss him. I want him to come back, but I know that he can’t. He’s gone.”

Mrs Hudson gave him a nod, understanding the feel. Even that her late husband was so bad, she missed him when he got executed. It was understandable.

“Well, I’ll be on my flat if you need anything, dear. I’ll leave you to… well, you know.” She excused herself and went back to her flat. John took the stairs, slowly. Not that he didn’t want to go back. He just didn’t want to be overfilled with all the memories of the times that he and Sherlock rushed upstairs during the cases, back into the relative safety of their flat, often sharing a laugh about how much crazy they were by doing what they did. Also, there was no rush because he knew, sadly, that he would be faced with the empty flat, the memories of his best friend echoing in the faint scent of the place.

Mrs Hudson wasn’t even kidding about the letters. There they were, on a reasonable amount on the kitchen table. John picked them up and went to sit on his armchair near the fireplace.

They had no identification of who actually sent them or from where they came from.

He opened the first one and began to read.

 

_Dear John,_

_I wonder how much time it’ll take to you to move back to 221B, but when you do so, I’m almost sure that you’ll drown in letters._

_I’m sorry about your loss, but I hope, at the same time, that you don’t keep weeping for so long. You were always a soldier. You’ll recover._

_Soon._

_Take care,_

_From someone that you know._

It was so short and at the same time it didn’t explain much. He proceeded to the next one.

 

_Dear John,_

_I wish I could pass by to see you, but my schedule is somehow a busy one at the moment, anyone could say so. I wonder if Mrs Hudson got rid of half of the flat’s stuff or if you kept them._

_I can’t reveal who I am, but you know me._

The following letters were similar to the first ones, short, referencing to something casual or even trivial, always starting with ‘Dear John’, always ending unexpected, never identifying who sent them, always computer written, so John couldn’t guess by the handwriting.

It could be so many people. One of his ex-girlfriends, perhaps. Or even Mycroft. It could be someone from the Scotland Yard, Molly, anyone.

He sighed, putting the correspondence under the skull above the fireplace and went to organise his things on his room, upstairs.

John didn’t mind the letters, because he thought that whoever was sending them, they would stop coming by absence of an answer. It seemed logical. The person probably had no idea that he moved, it seemed.

On the following week, unlikely he expected it to be, a letter came, in some sort of odd way.

There was someone knocking at the door. It could well be Mrs Hudson, but then she wouldn’t knock, just ask if she could come in. It was Lestrade instead. He had a look of confusion on his face.

“Good morning, Greg.” He greeted the silver haired man.

“Oh, hi John.”

“I can say that this is an unexpected visit, but come in, I’ve just put the kettle on.”

“No, don’t bother yourself, I’m just passing by. Someone left a letter on my doorstep, but it’s addressed to you.”

John looked at him with nothing but extreme confusion on his eyes.

“A letter addressed to me on your doorstep?”

“Yes. I’m confused about how it ended up there. Maybe some mail misplacement.”

“Yeah. But hey, thanks.”

“No problem. Now, I must hurry. I see you later, mate.”

And once again, John was left alone with a letter addressed to him. When he noticed the absence of identification, he rushed to open it. Same pattern, same person, probably.

_Dear John,_

It reads.

_I miss you. Although on the first letters, I could at least be near. But while I write this one, I’m on France. I wish I could have some time to appreciate the sights, but I’m a bit too busy for this. I wish you were here._

_I wonder if you’re back to the flat yet._

_If you do, please, don’t move out again. It’s such a lovely warm place._

_Take care,_

_Someone who cares._

John laughed. How could 221B be a ‘lovely warm’ place right now?  He didn’t understand. And how don’t moving out would help?

But then, out of nothing, it happened to him that whoever was doing this, they couldn’t be sending those by normal mail, as there wasn’t identification of the sender. Whoever was doing this was doing it personally or even by someone else.

Maybe Mrs Hudson had seen whoever did so?

John decided to check with her, but the only answer he could get was “It was just there when I woke up. Every week a new one would come.”

And it was a true thing after all.

Every week, without exception, a new letter would come. Sometimes it was a rant about something completely non-sense that would make John laugh the rest of the day. Sometimes it was sad thoughts about how John would love this place or that other or how stupid things were going without him. Some were just riddles without answer.

 

_Dear John,_

_Sometimes miracles happen. This letter isn’t one of them. I hate everything because anything has you on it other than this flat where you should be, possibly._

_Merry Christmas and Happy New Year._

_Someone that knows you._

_P.S.: I don’t think that it passed by your mind, but I could as well be Irene Adler._

_P.S.S.: But no, I’m not her. She’s clever, but she wouldn’t go through anonymous._

It started getting a bit of ridiculous, when, one year and a couple of months after Sherlock’s death, one letter came into a small box as a birthday gift.

But it didn’t matter how odd it would come, John would always look forward for those, every single week. He even tried once getting Mycroft’s help to put a CCTV camera in the front of the flat, so he would finally find out who it was, but then, the letters started going to Mycroft instead.

John was moving on with life. Whoever was sending those letters was helping him to move on, to focus on anything else that wasn’t Sherlock being dead. At times, of course, nightmares would still come to haunt him, his friend’s voice echoing ghostly in his mind.

And sometimes, in the middle of the night, he could swear that he had heard a violin being played in the living room. On those times, he would remember, he would cry for a reasonable amount of time and he would curse himself for not trying to insist to Sherlock to come along to see if Mrs Hudson was okay when he got the fake news that she got shot.

Sherlock was gone.

It was so painful to remember that.

But always when John felt alone the most, a new letter would come to cheer him up a bit.

Until the day they stopped coming.

He really thought that he wouldn’t see any letters from his mysterious sender, until the anniversary of Sherlock’s death.

Three years.

John would go often to the cemetery to stay a few minutes by his grave, especially on the man’s birthday and on his death anniversary. He would bring some flowers, would rant about how it was unfair of his best friend, leaving him all alone after all the things they lived together.

But every time, John would regret not telling Sherlock how he felt, about how much chances he ever had to tell him, but never did. And then he would lose it and cry until he couldn’t do so.

It was too late now. Time had been so cruel to him by taking Sherlock away when he needed the man the most.

But the day he did go to the cemetery, after hurtful three years, he found a letter attached to the gravestone.

 

_Dear John,_

_Do not weep on the place_

_Where nobody rests_

_The time has passed_

_And you keep returning_

_An end must be put_

_To your grief_

_Go back home, wipe your tears_

_No answer ever comes from a dead stone_

_There's nothing for you here._

_Two lies were told, but you believed_

_The wrong one to be the truth._

_Go back home, the place you belong to._

 

It made absolutely no sense at all.

Why would this mysterious fellow stop sending him letters and leave this one… there?

The thought chased after John on his way home.

God, he was tired of this, even that he already accepted the fact of Sherlock not returning, of him being dead. The fact that it was too late for the both of them, too late for even trying to come out with his feelings.

It was a Friday.

He made himself some tea and later, watched some crappy telly while eating takeaway until he got tired, then showered and went to bed. John took a long while trying to bring himself to sleep, still intrigued by the letter on the cemetery, earlier on the evening.

 

He could swear that he heard a violin before drifting away.

 

* * *

 

 

John woke up in the morning due a feeling of breathing behind him.

Unsure if this was an effect of his still sleepy state or if a real someone else was laying behind him on the bed, he doesn’t turn. John is now more than aware of his breathing and tries to keep a steady rhythm, afraid that, in the case of it being someone and not his imagination, the smallest movement could trigger a reaction that he wouldn’t like at all.

John has absolutely no idea of what to do. As the seconds flow, it’s even clearer to him that there’s indeed another person behind him. He feels a bit violated, because despite the fact that it’s his bed, he lives alone and it’s always odd when, in those situations, you wake up to the feeling of somebody else on your bed.

He wonders if he should turn to see who that is or if he should wait for some action from whoever is there, the smallest move.

But before deciding himself, the stranger begins to talk. John holds back a gasp at the very first couple of words.

“Dear John”, says the baritone voice, “please don’t throw me off of the bed. Also, stop to pretend that you’re asleep. Just… listen to me… please?” The voice becomes softer at the last word.

And John knows exactly who is behind him. And he also knows by the start that this must be the one that was sending the letters. Although, it’s impossible for that man to be on his bed, talking to him. John is afraid of turning. He can’t even say anything, in fear that this is an illusion, some sort of hallucination. He just nods, allowing the other to continue.

“Moriarty wanted to ruin my career and character so he could keep the criminal career of his own. He would…” he bits back a sob before continuing “…have killed you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson if I didn’t do what I did. I… I’m sorry for making you believe me dead when I was not.”

“Sherlock… is it really you?”

“I thought that it was obvious when I began to speak. You have no memory issues, it would take some several years more for you to forget my voice.”

“I saw you fall. I took your pulse… I-… How-“

“I had a little help of Molly. None of us wanted it to happen, but then I would have no reason to live.” Sherlock buries his face on John’s shoulder blades “Not when I would have to carry the guilty of your death with me. I wouldn’t survive.”

There’s a long moment of silence in which John just drowns in the feeling of Sherlock being behind him, his face buried on his shoulder blades, the fact that he’s alive, that John can finally stop grieving the man’s death.

“I missed you.” Sherlock finally says in a whisper.

“Me too.”

John fears that Sherlock is waiting him to say something, or else to turn to face him or leave the bed and pretend that the reunion after those three painfully years wasn’t there, on such an intimate space. But again, the detective seemed to have no boundaries about personal space at all.

But then, again, Sherlock ends up speaking first.

“Did you remember that time in Dartmoor… that I told you that I didn’t have friends?”

John nods.

“I think that I was right about that. The fear makes us more honest than it’s expected.”

John can’t believe his ears. Was Sherlock denying their friendship now, after going through God knows what to save his life? Maybe this was the end of it. Perhaps, he just came back to tell John that he was alive and that there wasn’t any reason to grieving anymore. The smaller man shifts, intending to leave the bed, but the detective pulls him back by throwing an arm around his waist.

The doctor just wants to punch the man, to make him leave to not come back at all. After all, John was moving on quite well by now. He could easily escape from Sherlock’s grip, but he doesn’t do so, because the man continues speaking.

“I don’t have friends,” he whispers, softly “I have a romantic interest.” Sherlock buries his face on John’s shoulder blades again, trying to muffle a sigh that had escaped his lips. “I wasn’t used to get attached to people like this, I used to find it cheesy and not like something that would happen to me… but then, you came around and changed that.”

John freezes at the words. It was a love confession, coming from Sherlock of all people. And John knew that it was now or never, to tell or not to tell Sherlock about his feelings.

He turns around. Sherlock lose really much weight, he can tell by his face, the way how the cheekbones are way so prominent on his friend’s pale face.

“You’re not the only one with a long time love interest.”

Then it happens.

The moment when everything can’t go back to be the same anymore. When time stops but continues its steps for what seems to be an eternity. And, at first, Sherlock is surprised by it, as if he were not waiting John to return his feelings and kiss him, but he’s soon kissing back, taking his time to explore John’s mouth with his own, one arm pulling the smaller man even closer.

It’s slowly, deliberated.

When they break it, they’re both panting breathless, John playing with Sherlock’s mess of curly hair, absently minded.

“Never play dead on me again.” John manages.

“I won’t. I never wanted to do so in the first place.”

There’s silence again. Sherlock shifts to bury his face on the crook of John’s neck, nuzzling gently there. There’s a moment when Sherlock lets out a sigh, hesitantly.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know that I love you, yes?”

“Yes, I love you too, but why are you asking anyway? You just confessed it a few minutes ago.”

“It’s that… we have a case.” He whispers, as if it was a forbidden thing to mention.

“We do?” John asks, confused.

“I had to deal with Moriarty’s men for three years, but there’s a last one that I couldn’t beat. I needed to wait until did something that I could use against him. Luckily enough, he thinks that I’m back to London, so he’ll probably attempt to kill me, I suppose. But you shall not worry, I’ve got a plan.”

“Can I at least know who’s that?” John wonders, still playing with Sherlock’s hair, absently minded.

“The second most dangerous man in London, Colonel Sebastian Moran.”

Again a pause. Sherlock literally purrs when John begins to trace random patterns on the nape of his neck.

“Are you up for one more adventure?”

“Oh God, yes.”

And as much as John wanted to cuddle there the whole morning and talk more about those three years, he knows that he shouldn’t. There will be time to speak about that and possibly, the letters that came over all this time.

Because Sherlock is back and John needs to be sure that he won’t let him go away again.


End file.
